see you at the end

Dylan

Things that never used to bother me start to bother me.

Distant sirens.

Private callers.

The emptiness of that dead-center desk in the classroom.

Blood dripping onto the counter top when Brynn accidentally nicks a finger in the kitchen one night. I get so dizzy I have to sit down.

It’s not long after that I start getting approached.

The first time was the day after what campus security referred to as an isolated incident. They shut down campus for the day, nonetheless. I went to a laundromat to see if I could get the blood out of my clothes and tried to time it so that there wouldn’t be many people there.

But just as I was pouring a bunch of OxyClean into the washer, a woman came in and walked right over to me. She had a boxy bag strapped diagonal around her and stuck a cell phone out at me, almost like she wanted me to take it, then asked if I was Dylan Atkins. I stupidly said that I was, and she started firing questions at me about the shooting. I panicked and quickly pulled my OxyClean-covered laundry out of the washer and left.

The second time, I was on campus the morning before class. I’d parked in a different lot, not wanting to walk past the spot where Leander was shot, and a news crew carrying a camera came at me out of nowhere. They must have been waiting. I was frozen in place, trapped, and wound up answering a couple of questions before I told them I had a class starting and needed to go.

Brynn said I should be proud of myself. She said I was a hero. It’s what the reporter at the laundromat said. It’s what the news crew called me. But Brynn doesn’t know the truth. No one does.

No one except Leander.

After that second time, I started wearing a hat and sunglasses when I ventured out anywhere. At first, Brynn laughed and joked about her celebrity boyfriend. But then Brynn started saying I was overreacting. No one was paying that much attention to me, and even if they were, it was a good thing to be recognized.

I told her someone had to be shot for me to be recognized.

And how in the hell could that be a good thing?

I asked her that while out at Target and we had a fight. People saw us. Heard us. I was wearing my pathetic disguise, so I don’t know if anyone recognized me, but I thought I saw someone filming our little scene with their phone.

I’m not sure how the media found out who I was so quickly. No one has interviewed me other than the police and school administration. And there’s been no word at all from Senator Garrison, which makes me wonder what Leander has told him. And even though nothing happened between Leander and me, it almost did, it could have, and I fucking wanted it to, and that’s enough.

That’s all that’s needed. So this spotlight on me now, however well-meaning, is too bright.

And I’m not a hero.

I’m far from it.

***

Brynn and I sit down to a rare dinner together at home.

The dining table we brought with us to DC is round-shaped and isn’t too big, but tonight it feels like one of those absurdly long tables in a castle or a rich person’s mansion—me on one end and Brynn far away at the other.

“How’s your student doing?” She asks.

The question catches me off guard and I have to take a drink before I answer. “He’s okay. I mean, I’m assuming. He hasn’t been to class, and I don’t expect him to be for a while.”

Leander told me in a text he has an appointment to get his stitches removed tomorrow. It makes me nervous. He hasn’t said when he’ll be back in class, but I know he wants to see me.

And I want to see him too.

Alone.

Brynn takes a bite of chicken. “Has that senator, like, called you and thanked you or anything?”

“He doesn’t really know me. I was just there that one time to play the piano—”

“And then you saved his son’s life.” She sets her fork down and wipes her mouth. “He could at least get one of his people to write you an email or something. Show some kind of gratitude.”

I hadn’t thought about how any of this might reflect on the Senator. And I don’t particularly need, or want, his attention. I don’t need to be thanked. I need things to go back to the way they were.

And I need to see Leander again.

“Are there crisis counselors or anything on campus for something like this?” Brynn asks.

I take another drink before I answer her. “I don’t know.”

She looks down at her plate. “Maybe you might consider talking to one.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she picks at her pasta, “you’ve been acting weird ever since that night. That had to have been traumatic. Not just for your student, but for you too.”

She’s probably right. I’ve been having nightmares. I haven’t told anyone about them. And it’s hard to leave my home and not worry over someone following me and wanting to interview me. I’ve also been anxious about the shooter. He hasn’t been caught. What if he goes after Leander again? What if he wasn’t done?

I asked a Detective Reed about it when she came to see me during my office hours. She must’ve searched the PCC website, because she knocked on the open door after I’d just unlocked it and gone inside. She made me more anxious than anyone else, because she didn’t smile or seem to blink even once. And she made no platitudes about me being a hero. She just wanted the facts.

And I wanted to know if Leander was safe.

Detective Reed raised an eyebrow at me and said that she believed that the Garrison family had hired private security. They suspected Leander’s attack had been politically motivated. She said she wasn’t sure if the person who attacked Leander actually intended on killing him, but she had reason to believe that whoever it was, they were really after Senator Garrison.

“After all,” she’d said. “They only shot Leander once in his right side. They could’ve shot Leander again or in his head or chest. But they didn’t.”

I’d thought about that too, but I’d thought the person maybe intended for Leander to die a slow and painful death, just bleeding out there on the sidewalk. Maybe the shooter hadn’t expected someone would be on campus and would get to Leander in time.

But someone was and someone did.

“By the way,” Detective Reed said. “What were you doing here that night?” She peeked at a notepad balanced on her knee. “Says here your office hours on Tuesdays are eight a.m. till nine. And your only class ends at eleven thirty.”

I almost told her the truth. The whole truth. Blurted it out as if she were some kind of shrink or CIA agent water-boarding me. Told her all about meeting Leander at the art gallery before classes started, the obvious tension, the attraction, and admitted to her that I didn’t know what I was doing because I haven’t felt this way before. Not just about a man. But about anyone. And I can’t even explain what that is, what I’m feeling, because I shouldn’t be feeling it, should I? And maybe it’s just that I like Leander’s attention and the conversation, because Brynn and I have only grown more distant since moving here. Maybe that’s all it is. Maybe that’s all, and I don’t need to think about it too much.

But instead of blabbing all that to her, and with sweat forming all over me, I told her that I’d been here that night to catch up on some work. I explained that my fiancée had been working late too, and I thought I’d come to campus while she was out. I knew Brynn could back me up, just in case Detective Reed had figured me out without me saying a single word.

But no one has told me that I should talk to someone. No one has suggested it at all. It’s probably a good idea.

But somehow, sitting here, feeling this distance between Brynn and me, I don’t like her being the one to say it. “Don’t tell me about acting weird. You’ve been working a lot of late nights. Including on the weekends. I didn’t think the museum was open that late.”

She glares at me. “I’m just trying to help you.”

“That’s not helping me.” I pause. “And neither is telling me I’m ‘overreacting’ when I want to disguise myself when I go out.”

“I just don’t understand why you’re hiding. You should be proud of yourself, Dylan. You saved that kid.”

“He’s not a kid.”

“Fine.” She pauses to take a drink of wine. “And I told you. We’re putting up a new exhibit. There’s a lot of work involved. And we’ve been having a problem acquiring some of the textiles. I told you all about it. I said that my job was going to involve a lot of late nights.”

I immediately feel start to feel bad, even though I don’t remember her specifically saying she’d be working late every night. And I’m not even sure why I’m giving her a hard time about it. Does it really matter how late she works? I guess it doesn’t, really. Her income is three times what I make. And we have the weekends together at least.

Only sometimes she has to go into work. Or wants to go out with coworkers and I’d rather stay home.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I guess I’m just…maybe I should talk to someone.”

“Maybe you should.”

After dinner, while we’re watching a movie together, the screen of Brynn’s phone lights up from the coffee table. It’s a text. I see the name of the person before she grabs it.

It’s a guy’s name.

Ansel.

I can’t remember if I’ve heard or seen that name before as she types out a response, partially shielding the screen from me.

But then she notices me looking.

She holds up her phone and shakes her head. “I hate it when I get texts about stuff that could have been a discussion in the morning.” She types on it again. “It’s just that exhibit is a really big deal is all. Lots of time and money going into it.”

“I see.”

She sets her phone down and we go back to watching the movie.

***

On Sunday, I wake up at four in the morning for no reason.

I toss and turn but I can’t get back to sleep.

Brynn is softly snoring next to me, and I consider taking one of her melatonin tablets, but then I won’t wake up until noon. I have some things to do today. So I go through the list in my head, hoping that will bore me to sleep but it doesn’t.

I get out of bed, go take a piss, and shuffle into the living room for my laptop. I open it up, intending to just deal with some emails, but instead I open up a private browsing window.

My fingers shake a little, hovering over the keyboard. And I swallow.

At first, I just type gay porn, but then I backspace and type free gay porn. Expectedly, the search comes up with a plethora of results. Ones that promise XXX hardcore action with bears and twinks and big cocks. I read through each one, sitting stiff and still as if one tiny movement will wake Brynn. I slowly, carefully, move to the spare bedroom and quietly close the door behind me.

After I’m settled on the bed, I look at all the different links again. I look at all the various kinks and fantasies that I could indulge in.

Then I look at the images.

And there are…images.

I’m not sure how I was expecting to feel. When I was eleven I searched for “naked ladies” on the dial-up computer we had in our apartment. By then my dad had fucked off, leaving me and mom in a two-bedroom by the marina so my mom could walk to Mango’s Bar and Grille where she waitressed during the busy summer months. Unbeknownst to me, my mom had set up some kind of parental block on the AOL, so my “naked lady” search came up with nothing.

It wasn’t the last time I’d get curious. And I would be luckier in my next search.

But right now I don’t know if lucky is how I’d describe it.

I decide to pick a familiar mainstream porn site, one that has straight porn as well as gay, and as soon as I click the link there are images and muted vids on the side of men fucking, men sucking dicks, and men jerking off. Not a single woman anywhere. It’s overwhelming for a moment, so I have to look away for a second.

I partly feel like a dumb eleven-year-old again, searching out of sheer curiosity, while worrying I’ll get caught. But I also feel that there’s something here I’ve only glimpsed at before; something that only existed in the periphery of my life and didn’t affect me until I turned to look at it head on.

I scroll down slowly through thumbnails of videos, reading the descriptions, hovering the cursor over them to get a preview. Then I decide maybe I should start off with something simple. Maybe just a guy jerking off. I end up picking one that suggests a simple sex scene. But that ends up being a simple sex scene between three guys, which is too much for me right now, so I look for something else.

I click on another thumbnail and a video starts with two tattooed guys in the middle of making out and removing each other’s clothes. They’re sitting on a bed. There’s not much talking, but there’s a quick cut to one of them blowing the other. The one guy is laying back on the bed watching the other guy and roughly, yet affectionately, running his fingers through the other guy’s hair. Even with the volume all the way down, I feel like the groaning and gasping is too loud so I mute the video entirely.

When the camera focuses on the guy giving the blowjob, it’s clear he’s super into it. Most of the time his eyes are closed, but every so often he’ll open them and look up at the other guy as if he’s wanting his approval. He plays with the other guy’s balls and sticks a finger inside him, making the other guy open his mouth to presumably groan.

Another quick cut and the blow job recipient is now on his hands and knees while the other guy is in the middle of sliding his dick inside him. I wasn’t super aroused before, but now I am. The penetrating guy is careful until he’s all the way in, and then he starts pounding into the other guy. The scene cuts to different angles, never lingering on one shot. My hand has a mind of its own as it slides under the waistband of my boxers and wraps my fingers around my dick.

The scene cuts again and this time they’re fucking in a different position. The one guy is still fucking the other guy from behind, but they’re laying on their sides. The one guy is holding up the other’s leg, hooked by the knee, up and out, and the camera shows him getting inside at a nice, deep angle.

It’s not so much the fucking part, it’s how the bottom guy turns to look at the other one. It’s not sappy. They’re not in love or anything. It’s primal. It’s in his eyes, and the fucking starts to get harder and deeper as the bottom guy gets closer to climaxing. And then while the other guy is pumping his dick in and out of him, his dick erupts in one long rope of cum. His entire abdomen flushes a deep red and even though I can’t hear it, his mouth is open in a groan. He comes two more times. It gets on his chest and stomach. Then the other guy pulls out and comes all over the other one’s chest. I think I see at least three spurts but I’m not sure because my eyes squeeze shut when I come so hard I have to bite into my shirt.

It rolls through me like a steamroller and I feel flattened after, gasping and shaking.

***

I haven’t heard from Leander in a couple of days.

We’ve been texting nearly every day. Mostly about how he’s doing. He sends me a picture of the bodyguard hired for him. He also makes sure to tell me that the guards have all signed an NDA.

But there’s been no more FaceTime calls.

It’s probably because I saw on the news that Leander’s brother is in trouble again. I had to do a double take because he looks so much like Leander. People post his mugshot everywhere. And the Senator has been dodging questions about Leander’s injury and the other son’s arrest.

There’s a lot going on.

So I shouldn’t be bothering Leander.

But I miss him.

And despite what happened that night, I feel as if I have no right to ask how he’s doing. It’s like I’m intruding upon something that’s really none of my business.

One evening while Brynn is at the museum late again, I get bored and restless. It’s not like I don’t have anything to do. I have plenty of things to grade and emails to catch up on.

But I decide to go for a drive.

I don’t particularly like driving around big cities. Moneta was small and the only time there was traffic was during the summer months when lake season was in full effect. But I drive around nonetheless in the late evening traffic, which isn’t too heavy, and after going down a couple of blocks, I find myself driving up to E Street Galleries.

I sit in my car outside of the place and see that it’s open. After going around the block to find a place to park, I go inside for the first time since that night that feels like a year ago. But has it only been barely a month?

Once inside, I see a few people milling around, but it’s not the same crowd it was the last time. I go right back to that room Leander took me in, the one with the light art porn, and see that the light structure is gone. There’s another exhibit there, one with something that looks like a loom with broken pieces of ceramic all over it.

I’d go over to it and take a look, because it seems interesting, but that’s not really what I’m here for.

I go back out into the main gallery room and find Leander’s painting. I’m a little surprised it’s still here, and I take a seat on a bench in front of it. It seems even bigger and more brilliant than it was the last time. The colors seem more vibrant and the shapes more alive.

Or maybe it’s just that I know the artist.

And now I want to know what was on his mind while he painted those shapes. Made those brush strokes. Mixed the colors. It seems that it must have been many things. It seems that there must be many secrets embedded into that canvas. I’m curious about them now.

And I miss who those brush strokes belong to.

I miss him so much that I think I might be hearing things when I hear a voice, right next to me, say softly, “You must really like this one.”

I’d have to be hearing things, though, because it can’t be possible. It wouldn’t make any sense. But when I turn to look at the person who’s sat down on the bench beside me, I see that it’s him.

It’s Leander.

***

Leander

It must be fate.

It would have to be.

Because I’d just stopped by the gallery to talk to Lena about a potential buyer, and guess who’s here looking at it?

I almost thought I was imagining it.

I quickly glance behind me over at Troy, my bodyguard, lingering a few feet away. He’s got a tattoo of a creepy-looking owl on his face and biceps the size of tree trunks. He’s dressed in plain clothes so as not to attract much attention. He told me to just do what I normally do, act how I normally act, and he’d be watching.

This is the first place I’ve been out to alone since getting my stitches out. I was a little anxious—and more anxious that someone would recognize me from all the media—but I wore a hoodie, kept my face buried in my phone on the Metro, and Troy was nearby to keep watch.

And thank God he signed an NDA.

“What are you doing here?” Dylan says, surprised.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Shouldn’t you be at home, resting, or…?” He glances behind us at Troy, frowning at a painting of some daisies, several feet away.

“I was.” I see he’s got on a sweatshirt rather than a button-up, and I think this is the first time I’ve seen him in jeans. “But I couldn’t just stay inside forever.” I turn to look at my painting. “I got a call from the gallery owner that somebody was interested in buying.” I smile at him. “Was it you?”

His face gets red and I love it. “It’s not me. I just kind of spontaneously decided to come here tonight. I wasn’t even sure if your painting was still here. I’m glad to hear someone wants to buy it.”

“Yeah, we’ll see. They wanted me to come down on the price. This place isn’t an auction house. The price is the price, but I should probably take what I can get.”

So I can get the fuck out on my own already. Really on my own. Get as far the fuck away as I can from my dad and his politics and all the bullshit. And help Lionel. He’s in jail right now and used his one phone call to call me. I doubt the fucker even knew what happened to me, but I was knocked out when he called, so I didn’t answer. He doesn’t belong in jail, though. He’s an asshole, but jail isn’t going to help him. Even if he was shoplifting. He needs to go to rehab. Somewhere nice. Somewhere far from here.

Maybe, eventually, I’ll do the same.

I look over at Dylan and he’s smiling at me. It’s a soft smile. Shy.

I don’t have to go anywhere right now, though.

“It’s good to see you,” he whispers.

“It’s good to see you,” I whisper back.

He turns to glance at Troy again. “How’s, um…that…going?”

I shrug. “He’s nice. I guess it’s the price one must pay for being an asshole senator’s son.”

His shy smile fades. “How are you with…everything?”

If it was anybody else asking me this, I’d be annoyed. I’d tell them, very sarcastically, how great I’ve been doing ever since being shot by a gun. Just great! And how I have this scar now that I’ll have forever that still hurts, and how I don’t know if I’ll be able to return to the scene without freaking out, and how I still can’t remember enough to help the cops find the motherfucker because, apparently, my brain has decided to delete those parts. And I’d add in that my dad is a dickhead who puts his politics before his own kids, and if my brother has to serve time for this shit he’s gotten himself into, I’m afraid that’ll be the thing that takes him to the point of no return. And now I have this beefcake following me around because of my dad’s big mouth and my dad didn’t think he should have to get someone to watch Lionel because the jail can do it and Lionel is a junkie anyway. And my mom just goes a long with it, and so what the fuck am I supposed to do? Hm? That’s what I’d say if this was anybody else, and I’d make them feel like such shit for asking.

But Dylan isn’t just anybody.

“I don’t know,” I reply. I look around us to see there’s nobody around other than Troy, but he’s not close enough to really hear. I feel like I could be honest with Dylan, tell him everything I’m thinking, but I keep it simple. “Sometimes I feel okay. Other times…I want to just disappear and not tell anyone where I’ve gone.” I pause and add, “except you.”

He reaches for my hand and I take it, I gladly take it, and thread our fingers together. I look down at our hands entwined and remember how he held me that night. He kept me calm. He told me things.

And here we are again. Back where we first met.

And just like last time, it’s unplanned. We both just happened to be here at the same time. What are the odds? There has to be something to this. There has to be something to how I feel.

Impulsively, I stand up, tugging on Dylan’s hand and leading him around the gallery to a darkened corridor where the water fountain and restrooms are. I glance back at Troy who’s following behind at a distance. I can tell by the eye roll he’s got my intentions all figured out.

When Dylan and I are alone and shielded from everyone, I get him up against the wall. He stares at me, then his eyes shift worriedly to the side.

“He won’t say anything,” I assure Dylan. “He can’t.” I get closer to him. “I want to kiss you. But I won’t, if you don’t want me to.”

An expression crosses his face and for a brief second I think that’s what he’s going to say. But then he brings his hands up to my face and that’s all I need right before I press my lips to his. It’s tentative at first, as if he’s just testing it out. But I lean into it more, press myself closer, deepen it more, and I feel his groan in the back of my throat. Then it gets chaotic after that, hard, with tongues and nipping, and fuck every single little thing that is happening outside of this bubble, because I swear I’m just going to live out the rest of my life right here.

I hear a noise, though, people talking in insistent voices. It sounds like Troy was guarding this little corridor and now someone has to go take a piss.

I reluctantly pull away from Dylan, and I am dizzy, and surprised to find that my arms somehow found their way around him and his arms found their way around me.

“I think we need to go,” I whisper to him. I turn and we leave the area so a miffed older man can go to the restroom. As Dylan and I stand out in the open gallery, no longer touching, Troy puts some distance between us and him again as he patrols the area.

“When can I see you again?” I ask Dylan.

He looks at me. He knows I don’t mean in class. Or on that god-forsaken campus at all.

“I don’t know. I—” He looks down at his feet. “I don’t know how to…,” he makes a gesture with his hand. “I don’t know how to…do this.”

His phrasing makes me feel a sliver of alarm. “Do you want to…do this?”

He looks me in the eye then. “Yes.”

“I have a studio,” I say, then regret saying it because I haven’t been there since all this happened. I gave Detective Reed a spare key and she mentioned something about getting security camera tapes from across the street. Last time I talked to her she said there weren’t any new notes anywhere.

Dylan raises a brow. “You do? Besides that garage?”

I smile. “I used to stay there. Before.”

“Oh. Where is it?”

“It’s in Old Town, near Main.”

Dylan looks over at Troy again. “Did he drive you?”

“No, we took the Metro.”

Dylan’s gaze is heated and I feel it go through me like an electric current. “I’d like to see your studio.”

My heart starts to race. “Okay. Let’s go.”